


in sickness

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, F/M, Food Poisoning, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Sickfic, oof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25922131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: reid doesn't show up for work, and you fear the worst
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Kudos: 95





	in sickness

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii - i write blurbs there that i dont post here if youre interested in more content from me lol

You bumble in to work, burning your tongue on gulps of coffee and you try to keep yourself awake - the team just got back from a case last night (well, ‘last night’ is a generous term - it was really more like ‘very early this morning’). 

It certainly seems like the rest of the team shares your sentiment, going off of their dramatic yawns and bleary eyes, so you don’t feel too bad about your undoubtedly impaired work ethic. You plop yourself down at your desk and groan, taking a moment to mentally prepare yourself before turning to your unfinished case files - Hotch let everyone go directly home from the airstrip last night, but the meager few hours of sleep really haven’t made much of a difference. 

You work through the paperwork on autopilot - and maybe the quality suffers a little, but it’s really the only way you can get through it when you’re this tired (and you already got through all the _super important_ parts last night on the plane, so you decide that _it’s fine_ ). 

When Hotch emerges from his office and glances over the bullpen, furrowing his brow and asking, “Has anybody seen Reid?” you’re completely startled - usually you’re pretty aware of your surroundings, but you’re so tired you honestly hadn’t noticed his absence. It shocks you because you’re usually _incredibly_ aware of his presence - it’s something that comes with having a (secret) crush on him. 

You - and everyone else in the bullpen - look around for him, finding his desk lacking the usual clutter of paperwork that fills it when he’s working. His satchel isn’t present either, which is a sure sign that he’s _not here_. 

“I’ll call him,” you announce, already reaching for your phone - it’s completely out of character for him to even be _late_ , much less not show up at all.

(and it reminds you a little too much of _that time_ in his life, of long sleeves and snapping and perpetual unease, if you’re being completely honest - you hate that it’s the first thing you mind jumps to whenever he does anything unusual, but you can’t help but to fear the worst)

He doesn’t pick up, not the first time nor the additional five times after that. A crowd of worried teammates grows around you, their jaws tightening and lips pursing as each call rings out. The same thought is running through all of your minds - _what if something happened to him? What if an unsub came after him? What if he relapsed? What if what if what if?_

You find yourself locking eyes with Hotch and catching the pointed gesture of his head - _go check on him, I’ll deal with any repercussions that might arise_ \- turning for the stairs and practically running down them, too impatient to wait for the elevators. 

You’re certainly awake now.

…

You know Hotch couldn’t have covered for more than one of you, couldn’t have sent a whole team of agents to check on someone who very well might have just slept through his alarm, but you really wish you weren’t alone right now, driving to his apartment and forcing yourself not to speed (too much) as your mind races with thoughts of what might have happened to him.

When you finally pull up to his apartment building you park in a rush, not caring that your car is _very_ crooked, and punch in the door code with shaking fingers, bruising your hip on the doorknob in your haste to get inside. 

You dash up the stairs and to his apartment and pause in front of it, collecting yourself to deal with whatever disaster might be waiting for you. You rest a hand on your gun, _just in case_ , and try the door, un-tensing a little when you realize it’s still locked.

You dig your spare ( _for emergencies!_ ) out of your bag and unlock it, pushing it open and taking stock of his living room - nothing is broken or out of place, and his satchel is resting by his desk, so he definitely got home last night. You hear a pained noise from deeper within and alarm shoots through your body, making you draw your gun and advance with caution.

Once you get close enough, you recognize the sound of someone…vomiting? And then a groan of discomfort in a familiar voice. You lower your gun a little, pretty sure at this point that you know what’s going on, and peek through the open door to the bathroom. 

Spencer’s resting his forehead on the rim of the toilet - _oh wow, he must really be feeling terrible if he’s letting something so ‘germ-y’ touch his face_ \- looking sweaty and miserable, but otherwise unharmed. You let out a sigh of relief and re-holster your gun, causing Spencer to jolt up in surprise at the sudden noise. 

His features relax once he realizes it’s just you. He opens his mouth to speak, but then pales and turns back to the toilet basin once again, gasping breaths between dry heaves and tightening his arms around his obviously tender midsection, eyes teary in his misery.

You rush over to him and rub circles over his back, pulling his hair out of his face and saying, “It’s okay, you’re okay, just get it out,” until he finally stops heaving. Once he’s done, he closes his eyes against the harsh bathroom light and starts wavering where he sits, too weak to hold himself steady. You pull him back to lean into your chest so he can rest before the next wave hits - you’re not naive enough to think that _whatever this is_ is over just yet.

Your half-afraid that this is withdrawal - you can’t remember him rolling up his sleeves anytime in the past few weeks (although it is _winter_ , so) - but he’s wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, something you’re sure he only uses for sleeping, and when you glance down at his arms they’re completely free of fresh marks. 

He mutters, “it’s food poisoning,” and you notice you’ve been thumbing over the crooks of his arms without realizing. Maybe he’ll be mad about it later, that your thoughts jumped to the worst case scenario, but right now he just doesn’t have the energy. He can barely keep his eyes open, and you know he probably hasn’t slept in over 48 hours. 

You manage to get him into bed with a damp cloth resting over his eyes - he doesn’t have a fever, but you know the coolness will help with the headache you’re sure he has, if the way he’s squinting at the light is anything to go by. 

He seems fine for the moment at least, so you head to the kitchen to get a glass of water - suddenly thankful you’re in the habit of keeping a couple sachets of electrolyte powder in your bag just because you like the taste - and a large bowl (in case he can’t make it back to the bathroom), and to call Hotch.

He picks up on the first ring, firing out, “is Reid okay?”

“Well, he has pretty bad food poisoning, so I don’t know if _okay_ is the right word. But yes, he’s here and he’s unharmed,” you reply.

Even through his stoicism, you can practically feel Hotch’s relief. “I’ll put you down as sick if you want to stay with him,” he says.

You honestly hadn’t even thought about leaving Spencer alone, not while he looks so miserable in the other room, so you respond, “Thanks Hotch, I appreciate it,” before ending the call. 

When you re-enter Spencer’s room he’s fallen asleep and you think _good, he needs it_. You browse his extensive bookshelves while you wait, occasionally pulling out a book and glancing through it before carefully returning it to its place, keeping a watchful ear out for any distressed noises. 

They come about an hour later - Spencer stirs awake and immediately groans, instinctively curling up even though he knows contracting his stomach muscles will make the pain worse. He pales once again and you know he’s going to vomit like _right now_ , so you shove the bowl under his mouth, thankful you thought to grab it, and hold it there as he heaves into it. 

Afterwards, he leans back into the headboard, limp in his exhaustion. You place the bowl on the nightstand and scoot up beside him on top of the covers, nudging him so he lies down and reaching over to replace the cloth, flipping it so the cool side is down. 

“Thank you, (y/n),” he mutters, voice hoarse, then adding “you don’t have to do this, you know.”

You rub circles into his chest and reply with a smile, “No, but I want to. I like you, Spencer, believe it or not.”

“I like you too,” he whispers, and you freeze - _he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he’s delirious. There’s no way he means…or is there? Does he…?_

His chuckle startles you out of your thoughts, “I can practically hear you overthinking that, (y/n).”

“Hey!” you reply, “That’s my line, _Dr. Overthinker_ \- I mean, _Dr. Reid._ ”

A smile tugs at his lips and you wish his eyes weren’t covered by the damp cloth - you want to see his expression. He lets a moment of silence pass before sucking in a breath and mumbling, “I meant it, you know - _I like you_.”

You blink in surprise because he certainly doesn’t sound delirious, and he’s said it twice now so he obviously knows what he’s saying. You can feel the blush building on your face as you try to think of a response finally settling on wrapping your hand around his (slightly sweaty) palm and mumbling back, “I like you too, Spencer, I like you too.”

…

_“How did you even get food poisoning in the first place?”_

_“…um.”_

_“…Spencer?”_

_“I, uh…I might have eaten the leftover take-out that was in my fridge from…um, from before the case?”_

_“T - the case that lasted almost two weeks!?”_

_“…maybe.”_

_“W - what were you expecting!?”_

_“I was hungry, okay? There wasn’t anything else to eat!”_

_“Oh my god, you’re such a doof.”_

_“I’m not a doof, I’m a genius! I have three Phd’s!”_

_“Nope, you’re definitely a doof. A complete and utter idiot.”_


End file.
